


Afraid of Not-Existing

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I guess?? like idek what qualifies as sadstuck, M/M, Sadstuck, Suicide Attempt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:41:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The darkness here was complete and absolute, threatened to engulf you whole, to worm down your throat and suffocate you, to shove against your chest and your back until breathing became impossible. But it didn’t, just left you on the brink of breathlessness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afraid of Not-Existing

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to God, if you trigger easily and read this, I will not forgive you for doing that to yourself. Just don't, okay? Honestly. So only read this if you don't trigger easily and stuff. Please and thank.

“ _I can’t do this anymore, Jake, I_ can’t.”

-

The darkness here was complete and absolute, threatened to engulf you whole, to worm down your throat and suffocate you, to shove against your chest and your back until breathing became impossible. But it didn’t, just left you on the brink of breathlessness. If you were to try your hardest, you may be graced with a few moments of peaceful silence.

Just for a few moments, though.

Because you would have only seconds before the lack of sound - the lack of anything - became pressing, coaxing the emergence of shrieks where there weren’t any, until you would curl up into yourself, knees tucked up against your collarbones, head bowed, and suddenly you couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. You needed to escape, to only escape, to evade this terrifying darkness, this frigid silence that chilled you to the bone and back.

But you couldn’t.

You can’t.

You are Dirk Strider, and you cannot feel a thing.

It is only you in this dark place, this quiet place, only you, all alone, just as it’s

always

been.

Sometimes you can almost fool yourself into thinking otherwise. When Roxy shoots you that proud, smug grin. When Jane darts to you and throws her arms around you and murmurs about how worried she was, about how she thought you would never come back, about how yes, she know it had only been an hour, but she had every right to be worried. When Jake slings an arm around your shoulders after a successful grist hunt. When Jake claps you on the back, cheeks flushed from exertion and breath coming out in pants after a strife. It’s never enough, though.

Never really, truly enough.

And you’re trying so very hard. Often, you can manage smirks, quick barks of laughter, a few beats of relaxation. And then that fucking darkness closes in on your again, collapses around your being, your very essence. You wonder how much more of this you have to take until it ends. Until you get out of the session? No. It was like this before. Not as horrific, but the emptiness. You’ve been empty for a long, long time.

You’re tired.

Tired of being empty.

Tired of being alone.

Tired of being lost.

Tired of _being_.

At this point, you simply want to curl up somewhere and refuse to move, perhaps to feel your bones jutting under your skin like branches of barren trees, feel your cheeks hollow and your pulse get slower, slower, slower, until it wasn’t there at all.

Or maybe you wanted to take a piece of one of your shattered blades and slice it across your arm gently, watch pinpricks of blood well up. To revel in pain that you can control.

You aren’t sure.

What you do know is only that you want this all to end.

-

You are sitting alone in a reverie, thoughts are thunderclouds, storming and whirling. Stars peer down, out now from behind their blue blanket. The other three sleep, quite soundly; there is a crash of a large skeletal creature slipping, bones shattering and scattering across the rocks, and only Jake stirs. You long to reach out, lean forward, touch fingertips to his face and trace his jawline, his lips, his eyes, his everything.

You are still.

Yet, you crave that touch.

You always have.

That will only make this that much more painful.

You rise to your feet, slowly, soundlessly, and end up kneeling beside him. Fuck it, you’re not going to have the chance again, so why the hell not? The pads of your fingers gently come to rest upon his cheek. It is warm and soft and suddenly you are reluctant to pull away. You stay like that for longer than you intended to, and before you move you flatten your hand, the brush becomes a caress. His eyelids flutter but do not open. Jesus, if your friends were to find out about this, you’d never hear the end of it.

After this, they’d never have the opportunity.

Yeah, you sure as hell don’t want to deal with the aftermath of this, and in a cruel, almost inhuman way you are thankful you won’t have to.

Christ, you want to punch yourself. Always so selfish. That’s what happened when you lived alone for all of your life. You had no lessons in selflessness. For a minute you are jealous of Jake and Jane and even Roxy, but a moment later jealousy fades to self-pity. _Pathetic_.

The darkness presses ever-closer.

You are a lonely bastard.

You take back your hand and turn on your heel, flash-stepping as far from the little camp as you can. Close enough for a ten-minute walk; you don’t want them panicking about your absence and endeavouring into a search for you only to find your dead body. Perhaps they would think you just ran, then spent days hunting for you (though, you suppose that’s exactly what you’re doing, in a sense). The sword is out of your sylladex and in your hand, then. It doesn’t seem as light - it must have not felt as heavy when you were jacked up on so much adrenaline you could barely form a coherent thought.

Something cold touches your throat. It is your sword, and you are the one holding it there.

Red words appear in the bottom of your shades.

_It’s going to hurt._

You know.

_Not just you._

You know.

_Jake will blame himself._

Fucking hell.

_He’ll never forgive himself._

You tell it to shut up. It doesn’t.

_Roxy will start drinking again._

You turn it off. It turns back on.

_And poor Jane will be left to be the strong one, even though she’ll be falling apart._

You tear off your shades and throw them. They hit a rock and shatter.

God

fucking

damnit.

Your head tilts back slightly, the pressure of the blade increasing.

You’re afraid.

You’re afraid of Not-Existing.

From the dark of the night, footsteps are heard. Running.

As you turn your head to the sound, the blade breaks skin. You feel a drop of blood slip down to your collar.

It’s Jake.

Of course it is.

He is racing toward you at his fastest. When had we woken up? When you left? When you touched him? You aren’t sure. You want to ask him but know he would not answer.

The footsteps stop. He is in front of you now, about a yard ahead.

“Dirk? What are you doing?” he asks. His voice is little more than a breath.

You move the sword a fraction of an inch. “Go back to sleep, Jake.”

He swallows. If you had imitated him, it would have drawn blood. “So this isn’t another nightmare, then.”

 _Another_. He has dreamt about your suicide before. Some part of you wants to assure him that it will be okay, that he will be completely fine without you (perhaps better off), but you are silent.

He takes a step closer. “Please put the sword down, Dirk.”

This is some kind of psychology trick, you know. The more a person says your name, the more you like them and the more likely you are to pay attention to what they say, that’s how it works. It’s a brain thing.

Jake looks fearful and desperate. You hate making him feel like this. Maybe more than you hate yourself. Are those tears in his eyes?

Shit.

The image of the boy in front of you on his knees, face in hands, sobs racking his body flashes through your mind. You shove it aside, then shake your head minutely. “Jake, you don’t understand,” you hear yourself whisper. Your voice

cracks.

Another step. “Dirk, my friend, my friend, please, don’t do it, please, please.”

He is begging.

Pleading.

You are selfish. “I can’t do this anymore, Jake, I _can’t_.”

Jake in right in front of you now, less than a foot away. “At least tell me why, please.”

You close your eyes. You do not want to see his anguish. “I am alone,” you say, “It’s dark and I’m alone.”

Something touches the place where your neck meets your shoulder. His fingers. “You’re not,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone, Dirk. You never have been.”

There is nothing more sincere than his voice. Nothing in the world. A tear clings to your eyelashes.

He takes hold of your wrist and twists it gently; the sword falls to the ground with a clatter.

You say his name.

He says yours.

You kiss him.

He kisses you.

There is a flash of light behind your closed eyelids, but it is only him, only Jake, taking your hand and leading you out of your smothering darkness with a smile that is bright, bright white, all _happy_ and _hope_ and _peace_.


End file.
